


The Other Dragon

by RedHorse



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fuck D and D, I wrote this in an episode 5 induced rage, Pegging, Rough Draft, afterthought tags:, and appreciated, but then there was worldbuilding that happened, carthartic pegging, diverges from season 8 episode 4, for catharsis?, is one I saw, literally written in a rage spiral and now posted on the internet I don't know why, so it's a fic with lots of meandering self-indulgent stuff, spoilers through season 8 episode 3, then pegging, this was supposed to be a fic about pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 11:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18827404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: The last place to give Daenerys a Queen's welcome was the city of Meereen. Daario is more surprised than anyone when it has occasion to give her another.





	The Other Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> To summarize the tags: this is self-indulgent bitter fuck-you-HBO fanfic. Sorry not sorry. The beginning is basically the fic equivalent of me crying into a void. There's also pegging.

In the intense cold, they hadn’t had to hurry. Dany remembered the aftermath of the battles in the south, when there was no time for ceremony. People were thrown on pyres in a furious race against the threat of disease, rotting and bloated within a day. The cold leant the human dead a stony dignity. They took days, clearing the battlefields and building the pyres.

****

Afterward, the essential repairs at Winterfell were swift, as though it had been designed with terrible war in mind. While it was going on, Dany divided her time between helping with Drogon, and looking in continuously on Rhaegal. All the while she felt a faint ringing in her ears, the instincts she’d been honing as a Khaleesi and Queen assuring her: all was not well.

****

The Northerners had no love for her. Her dragons had saved them, but they looked upon them not with awe, but with fear. Dany, too, had only grudging civility out of them, including her Stark hosts. Including Jon, of whom she endeavored not to think. She had only to inadvertently catch Sansa Stark's calculating stare across a room to know he had already told.

****

The maester who had helped prepare a poultice for Rhaegal's wounds brought their replacements each day at dawn. On the sixth day, Rhaegal seemed prepared to fly. And on the seventh day at dawn, the maester came with Brandon Stark, then excused himself.

****

Brandon Stark watched her with that inhuman gaze, which put Dany uncomfortably in mind of the ones she'd encountered since Bravos who purported to do sorcery. He looked at her as though he saw Dany more clearly than she saw herself, and it rankled. She met his eye with her chin raised. Beside her, Rhaegal growled softly at the maester, making him jump.

****

Brandon Stark didn't flinch. Maybe surprise was now thoroughly beyond him.

****

"You may leave us, Wolkan," the Stark boy said after a few moments, and the maester left without being asked twice. Like the rest of them, he had no love for her dragons. The maester strode through the snow, then waited a certain distance away, since of course they'd arranged in advance for him to bring Brandon Stark, wait for him and then return him to the castle.

****

Dany hadn't bothered with much of a personal guard since the battle. It was part of the shock, she supposed. And now it felt foolish, realizing suddenly how very alone they were. She couldn't bring herself to feel physically threatened by this young man, under the circumstances, but she did find that she didn't want to be alone with him. His gaze unnerved her; the way he spoke made her itch.

****

"Jon has spoken to you."

****

Dany nodded. The Stark boy looked past her at the dragons. "You've never fought a battle with an army that was prepared for them. You can't even anticipate how they may be at risk."

****

"You saw what was happening north of the wall," Dany observed, folding her arms. "You could use that same ability to help me. I could know exactly what they have planned."

****

The Stark boy gazed at her. She laughed humorlessly. "But you won't."

****

"No."

****

"Why?"

****

"You are the wrong Targaryen for the Iron Throne."

****

Dany went still. "That's treasonous."

****

"I have no country to betray."

****

"Your King in the North swore to me on your behalf. On behalf of the House you share."

****

"We don't share it. It was never John's, and it is not mine anymore. Not truly."

****

He spoke without inflection, except perhaps in that he was slightly wistful. Stirred by Dany's anger, the dragons' low growls had become steady. Fire churned in her heart and in answer, smoke escaped the corners of Drogon's jaws.

****

"I am the Three-Eyed Raven," Brandon Stark said. "To kill me is to kill all the history of man."

****

Dany was startled out of her building rage. "Kill you? For words to which I am the only witness? I can't afford to. Not here."

****

"Here, in the kingdom of all the seven with most cause to love you." He turned his head toward the maester, who hurried back through the snow, struggling with its depth in his impractical robes. "Here where you are offered no title not of your own making. Here where you come without invitation or thanks. Tell me, Daenerys Stormborn, when did you last have the sense a people truly needed you?"

****

Dany went to her chambers in a daze, barely noticing whom she walked past. She longed for her knights, but they were dead. Somewhere, Tyrion was near and would come, but she had cause to remember that now he was a Lannister again. 

****

In Dany’s rooms, stoking the fire and bundled in furs, was Missandei. She looked over in concern at Dany's appearance, then set down the steel poker and hurried to help Dany out of her coat. The north could not chill Dany, not to her bones where she had fire instead of marrow. But Missandei was pale and suffering. Dany touched her cheek.

****

"It will not be so inhospitable when we go south."

****

Missandei's eyes shone in the firelight. "Will it not?" She blushed, looking down. "Forgive me, my Queen."

****

Her point wasn't lost on Dany. But somehow, Missandei had always felt like a subject first, and an adviser second. It would be a betrayal, somehow, of Missandei's own faith in her if Dany expressed any in herself.

****

The niggling instinct coalesced into real anxiety when when Rhaegal disobeyed her.

****

It was the ninth day. The maester had come alone with the poultice. Rhaegal had flown the evening before, and all was ready for decampment back to Dragonstone. She called for Rhaegal.

****

He lumbered past her from the alcove where he and Drogon where sheltering, out into the swirling snow beyond, and Dany felt a prickling of unease.

****

She reached for him, more consciously than she’d had to in years. Since they’d turned their aim on Westeros the dragons had felt like an extension of her mind, even her body. In battle she directed them with the barest thoughts and when they all lost Viserion, somehow their remaining bonds had felt more tightly forged still.

****

But now Rhaegal evaded her, as if she was not a dragon, but any other woman. It hadn’t been like this since she’d locked them in the catacombs at Meereen.

****

She looked back at Drogon, his massive shoulders hunched against the cold, sheltering his face beneath his wing, but his eye visible still. Trained on her. Tentatively, she reached for him, too, and her breath hitched when she felt the same barrier. Or rather, the same lack of a bridge.

****

Drogon was hungriest for war. He was ready to go south. Rhaegal had always been the most observant of his brothers. Drogon struck off before he thought; Rhaegal contemplated his decision to follow; and if both his brothers were of like mind, Viserion went along without complaint.

****

Viserion. It was hard not to think of him, constantly; slain a second time in the ruin of Winterfell.   Her dragon was shattered by the magic that had reawoken him, but Grey Worm had found Dany a single, curved tooth, which she kept in her pocket.

****

Then on the ninth day when she went to the dragons to tell them to fly south, Rhaegal backed away from her, the flexible spines that ridged his hide all flagged so he looked twice his volume, and snaked his head back and forth in answer.

****

Drogon snapped at his brother's throat. Once Dany would have reprimanded him, but now she was used to how viciously they sparred, without ever harming each other. She stood back.

****

Rhaegal rose onto his haunches so he briefly had the height advantage over his larger brother, and struck Drogon in the chest with his foreleg, then took two running steps and flew away. Drogon was in hot pursuit, and Daenerys watched them circle above her, snapping and lashing at each other. 

****

It had been so long since she was afraid. And she'd thought she'd never be quite as terrified as she was when the dead were closing in, when they swarmed Drogon like fleas, when all seemed surely lost...

****

But this was worse. This was a heart-deep uncertainty. She went back to the castle, where they were half-readied, and Grey Worn and Jon greeted her with alarm. She avoided Jon's eye.

"I have reconsidered Lady Sansa's suggestion that the troops rest here," she said, her gaze inadvertently catching on Lord Varys, whom she instinctively loathed and yet whose trust in her had felt complete and sincere, and so recently...

****

There was nothing of that feeling left, here, except on the faces of the people whom she'd bid cross an ocean, so that so many of them could be burned on pyres in the snow. She went to her rooms, to her fire, and sat near it while Missandei  combed her hair, her fingers cool when they happened to touch Dany's scalp. 

****

When she closed her eyes, for the first time since she'd flown on dragonback, all she could see was the house with the red door.

****

* * *

****

In the middle of the night, in what felt exactly like a dream, Dany woke to find the room dark and cold. Somehow, the fire had gone out, and the cold had leached all the warmth from her skin. She thought for a slow, unconcerned second she might be dead, joining the peaceful ranks of those thousands of bodies they'd fed to the fire. But no; somewhere her heart beat, and her fingertips tingled with that fiery pain of bitter cold she'd never known until she'd gone beyond the wall.

****

She rose from her bed and heard, outside the window ridged with frost, the beating of heavy wings. She'd know the sound anywhere. The castle shuddered and men cried out, and Dany realized abruptly that she was awake.

****

She walked to the window, the topmost fur bedcoverings gathered around her, and with difficulty, forced it open.

****

The outside air was a punch, like the storm that she'd flown through with Drogon in pursuit of the Night King. And looking at her with perfect focus, balanced precariously on the damaged wall running beneath the tower where they kept her, waited her dragon. Rhaegal.

****

Drogon had been the only one she'd ever felt invited to ride, until now. She stepped onto the sill and he gave a rumbling sound of approval, curving his neck to close the gap between his body and the wall. Still, there was a foot or more that she had to virtually leap; it was hazardous, and she did it for no good reason. There was no objective urgency, except the insistent drumming of her heart, which had begun at the sight of Rhaegal. As though she had been half-dead, and looking him in the face revived her.

****

For a moment, she gasped and could have fallen, tangled in her furs. But then the blanket fell away and the cold air kissed her easily even through the layers of heavy clothing, as though she were naked beneath the winter moon. It felt exactly like being in the center of an inferno. She landed at the base of Rhaegal’s neck. Like Drogon, there was a place for her there, flexible spines to grasp.

****

Rhaegal threw himself into the air, and Dany surrendered to him. Between them their bond stirred, not quite mute but still feeling faint and far away, and Dany could do nothing but cling tightly as he carried her high and well away.

****

* * *

****

When Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons returned to Slaver's Bay, Daario Naharis had the bad luck of being away from his post, so to speak.

****

In his defense, Daenerys had never specifically said  _ he _ had to rule Meereen. She'd only said the Second Sons were to hold it on her behalf, and Daario had never had the temperament for politics. He'd thought there would be more disputes to settle, more uprisings to quell, but the Meerenese were biding their time. They waited for news of what befell the Queen and her army in Westeros. Whether she was victorious or not, they saw myriad possibilities. A defeated Daenerys might return in considerable force to Meereen to lick her wounds, or she might lack the strength to return and hold it. A victorious Daenerys might maintain her empire, or might decide that Westeros was her priority.

****

So, things were quiet. Daario had only recently begun distracting himself with women, reaching the end of his capacity for pining, and to his frustration (though not his surprise) it hadn't gotten him anywhere. He'd had slightly better luck with men, which was why when the bells rang and the shouts sounded late in the morning upon her arrival, Daario was gasping into the pillow he'd been shoved into face-first while a boy with long blond hair fucked him mercilessly.

****

Winter was still at a short distance, and the windows were open. Daario lifted his head when the boy paused, his hands going lax on Daario's hips, to turn toward the sound.

****

"Why'd you stop?" Daario panted, and the boy pulled out and gave him an absent pat.

****

"Can't you hear?" the boy asked excitedly, walking across the bed on his knees to get closer to the window. The room was small, and he didn't even have to get to the floor in order to lean out and crane his neck. Daario  _ did _ hear. The bells, the cries. From just below the window someone called in rapture,  _ mhysa _ !

****

"Fuck," Daario said, flopping onto his back. But because he was a useless, pathetic idiot like all the people he'd belittled in the past, his heart soared at the thought she was close. No matter what it meant for her war, and while it probably had nothing to do with Daario. He'd see her, at least.

****

”You’re some sort of high-ranking Son, aren’t you?” asked the boy disapprovingly. “Shouldn’t you have been out there to meet her?”

****

“Let me see,” Daario growled, elbowing the boy away from the window. There wasn’t much to see of course. He was on the wrong end of town, and here buildings were low and clustered so that all that was really visible was the street, hardly wide enough for a donkey cart, and the laundry strung on a line from the boy’s building to the one it faced. 

****

But even this tiny street was swelling with people rushing for the city center, and the bells tolled on and on, unmistakable.

****

Daario took the time to clean up, using the water basin and the salts and cloths without asking, and struggled into his clothes while the boy dropped to the foot of the bed with a careless laugh. 

****

“Isn’t it amazing? She’s returned to us, like the Seers promised.”

****

Daario didn’t put much faith in Seers, but they had to get it right sometimes. He glanced up, bemused, at the boy, only to find him with a beatific stare settled on the window.

****

“Our Queen,” he murmured.

****

Daario was reminded how Daario was hardly the only one who loved her. Maybe he didn’t even love her most.

****

* * *

****

Making his way through the crowds took hours. In celebration, the Meerenese gave gifts to strangers. Daario was wearing eight colored scarves on each of his arms and had flowers tucked into his vest, belt and the buckles of his boots. He passed a baker who had thrown open her doors and was passing our sweet rolls and cakes to a crowd of excited children.

****

Gifts of greater significance were being readied for the Queen. Horses, fine tapestries and cloth, and from the poorer homes simple jewelry, carved bowls and crude paintings of the Targaryen crest.

****

Daario reaches the gates to the inner courtyard at last, and his men were so distracted they missed his signal until the third time. 

****

“Pretty,” said Trase, one of the more sarcastic of Daario’s captains, as he plucked at the colorful fabric that sleeved his arms. Daario hadn’t had the heart to strip off the scarves, and besides—

****

“Is it really her?”

****

Trase sobered, but did take a flower from behind Daario’s ear and a second from the collar of his vest.

****

“Yes.”

****

“Has she asked for me? Who did she meet with?”

****

Trase hesitated, then pointed toward the Wide staircase leading to the entrance of the Keep. “Let’s go in. I’ll...try to explain, but I don’t know much.”

****

The Queen had dismounted from the single dragon that accompanied her just after dawn. No one had witnessed her arrival, save the Second Sons on the parapets. The City slept, unknowing. 

****

The bells had begun ringing at sunup when someone happened to notice the dragon curled on the platform Daario had tasked the builders with constructing. Just in case she should return. The platform was inaccessible except to flying creatures and led to the chambers Daenerys had preferred in the central Tower.

****

She hadn’t emerged again.

****

“So you’re telling me  _ no one _ has seen her?” Daario was mystified. “And there’s no one with her?” He realized something else. “And just a single dragon?”

****

"A second one has been circling. The black one."

****

Daario paused on the top stair. "You mean she rode Rhaegal here?" 

****

Trase didn't understand the significance. He'd seen her ride in battle only once, and taking the larger dragon had likely seemed logical to him. "Rhaegal, the green one. Yes."

****

They continued into the tower, passing dazed sons who grinned and clapped Daario on the back. "Commander, will we go to Westeros, then? I've always wished to fight in Westeros!"

****

"Keep your wishes your own until you have your orders," Daario replied, but he shared the men's smiles. He unwound the scarves from his arms and pulled loose the flower stems from his clothing, handing them to those he passed until he stood before Daenerys's doors with only one green-and-black barred length of silk and a white rose.

****

No Missandei. No Grey Worm. No dwarf. No grisly adoring knight. Daario paused at the thought of such unfettered company, then shook himself. Something was wrong. She wouldn't have returned without her court if all was well. For all she knew, the city wasn't secure, yet she'd landed here unaccompanied. What if Dragon's Bay belonged again to the Sons of the Harpy? Though he knew her to be bold to the point of recklessness, this was not like her.

****

He knocked soundly.

****

Several long moments passed. Daario felt Trase's stare, and those of the nearest men, set on her doors. He thought she might not answer. Then the doors parted a few inches, and he saw a slice of her face between them.

****

Of course she was beautiful. He'd always known that. But seeing her after an absence was oddly moving, like he'd heard someone singing a sweet song from across camp, half in his cups. His emotions could take him by surprise that way. Her hair was loose and tangled. She looked only slightly less unkempt than she had when he'd found her striding out of the fires at the temple of the dosh khaleen.

****

She wet her lips, which were cracked, and disappeared. He'd thought she'd decided to slam the doors in his face, but then he heard her voice. "Enter.”

****

Daario went, with a wordless glance at Trase that was answered with a nod. He'd bring the Queen's Delegates (their words, not his; he'd just said "take care of things as you would if you were here, alright?") so they were ready when she chose to speak to them.

****

The rooms were unshuttered. Through the open windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor, he could again hear the commotion in the streets, and remembered his gifts. They felt silly now. Daenerys wasn't of Essos, after all. But they'd been given to him in her spirit, so he turned to her and bent his head. There were smudges of dirt on the green silk and the flower's petals were crumpled.

****

"Welcome back to your city, my Queen." He held them out. She was in shadow next to the door, leaning against the wall. She wore leggings of calfskin that had obviously seen little washing on her journey. They had been rolled up past her ankles and her feet were bare; she must have washed them. Her feet were just as he remembered them: childishly small, her toes scrubbed pink.

****

She stepped closer and took the offerings from him. He stopped breathing when their fingers brushed. While she inspected the silk she spoke, her eyes downcast. "And how do the people of Meereen fair, in my absence?"

****

That was almost a question for the Queen's Delegates, but Daario knew he, too, should know. And did. Hadn't he crossed the city the night before and again that morning on foot? "The city is at peace, and eager for every word of their Queen from across the Narrow Sea."

****

She looked up at him, and he saw her entire face clearly at last. There was the slightest thoughtful smile on the side of her mouth, but she was also marked by a visible pain. That was when he knew.

****

"Where is Viserion?"

****

Her tears were immediate, but she didn't move. She'd washed her face, but not very well. She was quite used to be waiting upon, he realized fondly. As a result the tears carved a path through the smudges on her cheeks. It did not occur to him to reach for her, and she did not seek his arms. But she held his eye.

****

"I lost him. In the far north of Westeros, against an...inhuman force." She wiped her tears hastily on the silk. "But now they are all dead. And Rhaegal brought me here."

****

"All dead?" Daario asked, not understanding. "You mean...?"

****

"That army, of creatures of snow and ice. Not...not my people in Westeros. Though we took considerable losses."

****

"Creatures of snow and ice?" Daario quoted back. "That sounds like a Westerosi myth."

****

"Some myths are true," she murmured, and shrugged. "Do you believe me?"

****

Daario blinked. "Yes."

****

She narrowed her eyes. "The creatures were led by a King thousands upon thousands of years old and carrying lances of ice. They rode horses decayed to no more than hide and bones."

****

Daario studied her face. "I wish I had been there to fight them for you."

****

"You believe me?"

****

" _ Yes _ ."

****

"But it's a mad story."

****

Daario couldn't help himself; he smiled, puzzled. "But you're telling it."

****

"Yes, I. The daughter of a Mad King."

****

Daario's hesitancy was leaving him, he was slipping back into the old intimacy of being alone with her, despite his best efforts. So he said, unthinking, "And my father was a whoring, debt-dodging coward. Must we measure ourselves by them?"

****

Daenerys looked, suddenly, very far away. "Without her father, a daughter has no claim to his throne."

****

"I thought it was a Lannister throne at the moment. Do they care who your father is?"

****

"You have never understood even the simplest elements of politics," she muttered, but he could tell that now she was smiling too.

****

"Don't need to," he said carelessly. "The Queen I serve has two dragons."

****

She looked up at him again, her smile lingering but her eyes still hard. "It took you some time to reach your Queen. What could possibly have kept you? I've been here hours."

****

Daario wasn’t sure what to say. She had never looked at him quite like this, but he felt something tightening in his stomach and thighs, as though he knew what it meant anyway. “I don’t spend many nights here,” he admitted. “Or,” he added thoughtfully, “very many days.”

****

Daenerys came forward, the silk in her left hand, and tucked the wilting flower back into his vest with her right. “You smell like sex,” she observed. “Have you found someone you like?”

****

He looked at her with what felt like a sudden fever crowding beneath his skin. “No.”

****

“Then...” she put her right hand against him, assessing, and if he hadn’t already been halfway there he would have hardened just at the matter-of-fact touch.

****

”Just as I remembered,” she said approvingly, and removed her hand. Daario let out an involuntary gasp, then sucked in a second when she took another step forward, reached behind him and slid her hand along the cleft of his ass.

****

“You smell like come,” she said wonderingly. “And not yours.”

****

She’d always had an unnatural sense of smell. His shoulders rounded, he lowered his face toward her shoulder but didn’t quite rest there. His forehead stayed a breath away from the calfskin fabric over her shoulder, riddled with holes where he could see the smooth white skin beneath. She circled his still-sensitive hole through the fabric of his trousers with a curious fingertip.

****

She turned her head and spoke into his ear. Bending over her was straining his knees, but if he straightened he'd limit her access. "Have you been fucking men, or letting them fuck you?"

****

He swallowed. "A little of both."

****

She swept her hand up to the small of his back, then down again, this time inside his trousers, and resumed her explorations without the barrier of cloth. Feeling where he was loose and wet, she hummed with thoughtful surprise.

****

"This feels quite recent."

****

" _ Yes _ . I didn't know that you...oh, gods..." He rolled his hips back when he felt her fingertip brush past, hooking on his stretched-wide rim in passing. "I didn't know you..."

****

"Knew what soldiers get up to?" she replied, amused. "It's a particular pastime of the Unsullied." She teased at him with two fingers, stretching his skin the slightest bit, then drew back. "But I've never necessarily felt the urge to get my hands dirty, no."

****

"You...I..." how much he wanted it shocked him. On his knees in front of her, taking what she gave.

****

"Shhh," she murmured, taking his limp wrists from his sides and pressing them together in front of him. She wound the green and black silk tightly there, kissed his forehead where he felt a sheen of sweat. It was strange, to be touched only upon his face, his wrists, his hole. She had deliberately touched him nowhere else, and he had felt very clearly that he was not to initiate.

****

Her hands settled on his shoulders once he was bound, and she pressed him down. He went immediately to his knees, swallowing hard, a rush of heat and moisture in his mouth as he inadvertently caught the scent of her, faint but unmistakable. It had been some time, after all, since she'd washed. He was used to her scrubbed clean, so he wouldn't necessarily fill his nose with her until he had it buried in the short, silky curls between her legs. 

****

"I always liked this about you," she said, stroking his jaw. "You put my satisfaction above your own, in all things. My husband was not that way. He desired my pleasure, but only after his own was sated. Sometimes, it was incidental that I enjoyed our coming together. But it can be pleasant, can't it, to be a vessel for another?" 

****

"Yes," Daario agreed, only half-conscious of what she said, and also sure he couldn't disagree. She touched the back of his neck, then pulled him gently forward until his face was pressed against her thigh, and stroked his hair.

****

"I left some things here," she said absently. "Including..."

****

"In the chest beneath the bed," Daario murmured, beginning to pant. 

****

Her hand went still, then resumed its path from his temple to his nape. "Did some exploring, did you?"

****

"Missed you," he moaned, rolling his face against her thigh. He'd wandered her rooms like the besotted idiot he was for weeks. He knew everything she'd forgotten there. He'd had to force himself not to keep the strands of her hair or roll like a dog in her scent on the pillows.

****

"What a terrible invasion of privacy." She stepped back and he nearly fell on his bound wrists, wrenching himself back in the last minute only through the full strength of his abdomen, and then rested on his heels, watching her. She went to the bed, bent and drew it out. A long, wide box. 

****

"I helped Missandei discover how it worked," she explained. He made a sound of shocked interest at the thought of Daenerys and her adviser...but Daenerys shot him a look, her grey eyes finally half-thawed to a familiar warmth. "Not like that. I left her to practice alone. But still..." she pulled the harness from the box, the supple leather dark against her white hands, and held it up to her waist, buckling it into place over her clothes. "I saw the appeal."

****

More leather, of a finer grain still and glossy with polish, covered the phallus she selected. Daario watched her choose it, opting against the largest size, to his co-mingled relief and offense. He could have taken it, he was almost sure. But the one she chose, handling it gingerly, still looked comparatively enormous when it was fixed into place at the center of the harness, just below her navel, proud and upturned. She tightened the straps until they bit into her hips, then wandered back toward him. He stared at the phallus, then at her downturned face. Her hair was ropy with tangles and half in her face. She looked feral, dressed in nothing, really, but primitive rags.

****

"Down," she said, and he leaned forward on his elbows, his cheeks hot, his pulse rapid. He heard her soft footsteps as she walked around to stand behind him, then nudged his knees wider with her bare toes. "For once," she said thoughtfully, "I see the disadvantage of your height." His thighs were straining by the time he was at the perfect level for her, and she jerked his trousers down. With his legs spread, the fabric was abrasive and tight against his straining muscles, and he reveled in the feeling of being doubly bound.

****

She looked at him for so long he felt the edge of humiliation burning through the lust, and then when it was almost too much to bear, she put the tip against him, seized his hips and pushed in.

****

It was large. Larger than the cocks on any of the boys he had chosen since she left. Once, far from home with the Sons and drunk, he'd let a big burly soldier fuck him out of curiosity, and it had felt like this. Impossible; a lance; wrong. His cock jerked and his balls pulled tight at the thought he was going to feel it for days. But that soldier had felt something like what Daario felt. Reveled, at least, in his tightness, and gotten erratic and desperate Daario was finally loose enough to thrust. Daenerys, on the other hand, retained all the composure, grace and ease afforded to someone whose equipment was borrowed.

****

Her inexperience showed, he supposed, in the way that she had to adjust for the angle, and find a balance between pulling herself forward by his hips or thrusting with her own. But it didn't matter; he couldn't have felt better-handled by an expert. He'd never thought he was a masochist, but the idea of being tortured by her was in and of itself arousing. All he'd ever wanted was to give her what she would take. His sword, his cock, his stupid unwanted heart...

****

Suddenly she shifted, and the pressure on his prostate made him strain and swear.

****

"I've heard about that, too," she murmured. She leaned forward more so that he felt her shirt brush his back, where his own clothes were half-rucked up his back from his position on the floor. She was fully seated and he felt her thighs against the backs of his. She released his hips so she could reach out and pet his neck. "That's good. I want you to like it." She rolled her hips and Daario sobbed. "Do you like it?"

****

Again, he almost couldn't put together the words, but he knew the answer anyway. "Yes. Yes.  _ Please _ ."

****

She continued to slowly roll and nudge, barely moving the phallus in him, and yet it was so snug-tight and its ridged shaft in such direct contact with his prostate, that every tiny movement was an explosion of pleasure. As the pain of the stretch lessened, the pleasure redoubled in contrast. She balanced with one hand on his shoulder blades, then reached down and twisted her dry hand over the pre-cum on the head of his cock. He couldn't help it: he thrust into her, then back against the leather cock, and came into her palm and onto the floor, choking and shouting hoarsely into his forearms, feeling the brush of the silk scarf on his face.

****

She pulled out, and he heard the sound of the buckles rattling when she dropped the harness and the phallus to the floor. He craned his head to look up at her, then hastily pushed himself back when he saw she was shedding her leggings. He managed to get his upper body upright, bound hands useless, just as she wrapped her hand back around his neck and pulled his face between her legs.

****

The angle was impossible. He really was too tall, he thought distractedly, and his back ached from supporting him without aid of his hands. But though he had to strain and twist his head, he got his mouth full of her, pressed his tongue into the fine, slick hair, felt her shudder when he parted her and found her already swollen and so wet.

****

Afterward, she knelt, too, and untied his wrists, then sat holding his hands in her lap and studying the dark marks that the binding had left behind, gently rubbing the feeling back into his fingers. Neither of them said anything for so long Daario was almost afraid to break the silence.

****

"Will you be here long?"

****

"I haven't decided," she said, frowning. "I don't know if it's even my decision," she added, looking toward the window over the dragon platform, but Rhaegal had not resettled there. Possibly he was down in the courtyard, devouring some of the Queen’s gifts. Daario recalled that the beasts ate constantly.

****

"Do you want...to see the, um, governors?"

****

She looked at him blankly. Daario managed a small smile. "I assume they're outside. I asked for them to be brought here." He wondered, without particular care for the answer, what those in the corridor could have overheard.

****

"Actually," he went on, "they've named themselves the Queen's Delegates, because I told them they were, you know. Your delegates. Not a particularly creative sort, but trustworthy. Or so far they have been, anyway."

****

"Unlike some people, I don't go around in public reeking of come," Daenerys said, looking down at his hands again. 

****

"Then...let me." Daario stood hastily, wincing at the bright pain in his ass and thighs and the duller one in his knees. "Let me."

****

He called for bathwater. The Delegates weren't outside the door, but a red-faced Trase was, and he confirmed he'd sent them away when it became obvious they didn't meet the Queen's immediate needs. Before the water came, he set her on the stone edge of the bath and peeled off her clothes, then cleaned her once-washed feet more carefully a second time with what was left in the basin.

****

Servants with averted eyes filled the tub with pail after pail of steaming, fragrant water, and when they were gone, he held Daenerys's hand as she slid into the bathing pool with a small, relieved sound.

****

Braiding hair wasn't that difficult; he'd always been solely responsible for his own, and kept it semi-long. He picked out the tangles first with his fingertips, and ran the bathwater through the long strands by cupping his hands and pouring it over her while she tilted her head back against his chest. Without meaning to, he wound up bathed, as well, by the time she again let him take her hand for balance and stepped back out.

****

"Why did you come here?" he had asked her while he worked soap into a lather over her back. She didn't say. "Is your war as they say? Does the Golden Company await you in the south?" he had asked when he worked a bit of grime from the crux of her forefinger and thumb. She didn't answer.

****

But when he settled her against the pillows, looking down into her curious stare, she finally said, "You may stay," and he lay down gratefully next to her with no additional questions.

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome comments on the fic but even more so, general laments about how we all should have just quit watching after episode 3.


End file.
